I Couldn't Talk About It, So I Wrote A Poem - Edited
The moistened meadow of my heart
dries desolate like a desert.
The climbing cloud of parched passion
doesn’t come low with the mystique shadow,
makes my overcast mind morose.
My halcyon horizon waits
for the southern wind to blow,
brings from the fervent sparkling sky
your sequined charisma below
to swathe my shades of blues.
In the surge of sequestered sandstorm
my derelict desire drifts away
from the anchorless dunes of the desert.
If you turn into an emerald tree
in the far away fawn forest,
the baroque boughs would reach out
to the seraphic sky of desire.
For a while in their soothing shade
I would like to repose,
hear the song the leaves sing
with the dainty drops of dancing rain.
In titular template of loneliness,
the spaced-out ethereal melody,
the dreamy transient tranquility
of the beginning gets energized
in the million steps I walk for you,
setting free the agonized heart
that quivers the wilderness willows.
The configuration of the unyielding essence
repudiates the catharsis reprisal.
I find a place at the edge of your taciturn time,
and sense the sound of silence.
As all the dreams blaze in an inferno,
I breathe the smoke of the ashen memory,
silently float in the nothingness sky.
In the space between the slices of my heart,
where the frail feelings get frozen,
the design of desolation is intertwined
with the splinters of shapeless icons of desire.
They fly away in the trajectory of silent longing.
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